Under a Red Sky

by Haya Leah Molnar

  “I want to go home.”

  “What? You’re tired already? It’s only eleven o’clock. I haven’t even gotten drunk yet.” Uncle Max smiles, looking naked without his mustache. “Why don’t you lie down here on Tirtza’s bed and have a nap? We’ll go home soon enough. Come on, Puiu, let’s go talk in the other room. The Child needs her rest.”

  I take off my headdress and place it on the bed next to me. I curl up with my nose touching the feathers. Uncle Max covers me with his overcoat, and the two men leave the room.

  When I wake up, Tirtza’s house feels as if it is swaddled in a blanket of hushed whispers. I put my headdress back on and tiptoe into the living room. It is empty. I walk toward a voice that comes from the dining room. It is Uncle Max’s. “Jews should never spend Purim alone,” he says. “I’ve had so much to drink that the liquor has kicked me in the butt. This coffee is good. Tirtza, please make me another cup, and make it strong.”

  Most of the guests are gone. The few remaining are seated at the table sipping Turkish coffee. Their masks are all off, with the exception of a tall man with the mask of comedy and tragedy, who is still wearing his. A green bottle of seltzer with a silver spout and lever is on the table next to Uncle Max. I tap Uncle Max’s arm and point to the seltzer. He shakes it and fills my glass.

  A lone voice starts to sing at the table. “Kol’od balleivav pen-imah …” Uncle Max grabs my hand and whispers in my ear “It’s Hatikvah, ‘The Hope,’ Israel’s national anthem.” As the voice gains momentum, each person around the table stands up and starts to sing. Those of us who do not know the words sing the melody. We are all standing and singing, except for one person, the man who is still wearing his mask of comedy and tragedy. Uncle Max picks up the green bottle of seltzer, shakes it, and sprays him from head to toe.

  “Get up on your feet, Jew!” Uncle Max tells him.

  The man gets up and pulls his mask off. Uncle Max’s friend Silviu, the mole, is grinning and dripping seltzer.

  Moments later there is a knock on the door. Two Securitate men in gray coats and hats appear and ask if Silviu Florescu is here. Silviu gets up. His face is as white as a sheet as he identifies himself. The two men surround him, each putting an arm around him, and walk him out. Tirtza follows them out the door. I hear a car door slam and the car drive off. Tirtza comes back to the dining room and asks Max for a cigarette. Max hands his sister the pack even though Tirtza isn’t a smoker.

  “They took him,” she says, shaking between drags. “The Securitate men said there was a raid on Silviu’s house earlier this evening. They found a box filled with cocoei—old Romanian gold coins called ‘little roosters’ that were minted before Communism—hidden behind an armoire.”

  “God help his wife and children,” Uncle Max says.

  One by one all of Tirtza’s guests go home. The Purimspiel party is over. When we arrive home, I go straight to my room, take off my costume, and get into my pajamas. When I slide under the covers, I notice it. The portrait that Mimi has painted of me is hanging above the clock on the Biedermeier chest. I get out of bed to take a closer look. There I am, in full Pioneer uniform, standing straight as an arrow.

  THE SEARCH FOR GOLD ROOSTERS

  “LET’S SEE if we can get this thing out,” Grandpa Yosef mutters, pounding on the shelf with the screwdriver handle until the shelf lands on the pantry floor with a loud thud. There’s a flashlight on the tile floor next to him. Its beam is pointed up toward the bottom shelf of the pantry, where Grandpa’s hands are searching for something. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he lies on his back, sliding his head into the tight space between the shelf and the floor. Grandpa stares at the empty left corner of the pantry in silence.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  Grandpa continues to look blank, as if he hasn’t heard me.

  “What’s the matter, Grandpa?”

  “I can’t believe this,” he says, shaking his head. “I hid the box right here in this corner, but it’s not there.”

  “What box?” I ask.

  “The box with my cocoei. I hid it right here,” he says, pointing again at the empty corner. “Right after we moved into this house.”

  “Grandpa, Silviu was arrested at the Purim party last week for hiding cocoei in his house,” I tell him.

  “Yes, I know that,” Grandpa says, getting up and wiping the dust off his shirtsleeves. “That’s why I’m looking for mine. We can’t have them searching the house and risk getting arrested.”

  A wave of panic rises from my toes and travels up my spine. “What do the cocoei look like, Grandpa? Tell me and I’ll help you find them!”

  Grandpa laughs. “They look like beautiful gold coins, Eva.”

  He squats so he can see my face in the dim light. Beads of sweat are glistening on his brow, and his black-rimmed reading glasses have slid down to the tip of his nose. “You’ve never seen a gold coin, have you?” He takes both my hands in his. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll find them. If they’re still here, we’ll find them and bury them somewhere far away from this house, where the gold coins can never be connected to any of us.”

  “Why did you ever keep them?” I ask, fighting my tears.

  “Because they’re valuable. These cocoei saved my life several times during the war. They’re emergency funds.”

  “But, Grandpa, Uncle Max said they’re illegal. You can’t use them anymore. Why are they so dangerous?”

  “They’re gold, Eva, and the Party says that owning any gold coins is ‘capitalist.’ That’s why I’m looking for them.” Grandpa’s voice is tired. “I figured the Communists can be bribed as easily as the fascists, given the right circumstances, but maybe I was wrong. You know, Eva, sometimes money can buy you your life.”

  “Grandpa, they could have just as well taken your money and killed you.”

  “You’re right. They could have, but they didn’t. I thought I was shrewd, but I was just plain lucky. I always gave the fascists a reason to keep me alive. I told them that there were more cocoei where those came from. It was a little game the chief of police and I played during the war. It nearly drove your grandmother insane. Every time I got picked up and interrogated, she thought it was the last time she’d see me.” Grandpa smiles at the recollection. “I can’t afford to play these games now. Not when your life may be at stake.”

  We don’t find the cocoei. Grandpa enlists everyone’s help, except for Sabina’s. He describes the box and its contents. Uncle Max takes apart the entire pantry, shelf by shelf, and then has to put it back together again. Uncle Natan looks under every mattress in all the bedrooms, despite Aunt Puica’s protests that he is invading the privacy of her inner sanctum. Tata goes through the dining room breakfront and even takes the dining table apart to search its base. When Sabina retires upstairs for the evening, Grandma Iulia enters the kitchen with Grandpa Yosef. She rummages through each drawer and then takes it out so that she can look behind it in the hope that the box has somehow been taped or nailed beneath. She orders Grandpa to bring out the ladder and hold on to her as she climbs so that she can inspect the top shelves with her very own eyes.

  “It’s not up there, Iulia,” Grandpa tries to convince her. “I know where I hid the damn thing, and I’m telling you it was in the pantry, not in the kitchen! Someone must have stolen the box, because I remember where I hid it.”

  “Shut up, you old fool,” Grandma Iulia mutters, getting down from the ladder. “You better hope that it was stolen, because I’m not taking any chances with my children.”

  “Neither am I, Iulia.” Grandpa sighs. “Our children.”

  “How would you know?” Grandma snaps.

  “Where the box is hidden or whether they are my children, Iulia?” Grandpa asks, pinching her cheek.

  “Don’t try to sweeten me up, you old fart,” Grandma says, waddling out of the kitchen.

  “EYES THAT DO NOT SEE EACH OTHER”

  TWO MEN IN RAINCOATS and hats with turned-dow
n rims show up two days later at our front door.

  “Is this the residence of Yosef, Iulia, and Natan Natanson?”

  I stand speechless at the door and nod. A soccer ball bounces into our foyer, and Andrei appears directly behind the two men.

  “Look at my new ball!” he shouts, bounding into the house after it. “Let’s go and play out in the yard.” Andrei ignores the two men who are standing uncomfortably in the foyer, looking at their watches as if waiting for a train. Grandpa Yosef comes out of his bedroom to see what the commotion is all about. He extends his hand to the men in greeting as I pick up the ball and run with it into the yard. Andrei can hardly keep up with me.

  We play ball nonstop until we are both dripping with sweat, and Andrei finally props himself against the yard wall and slides to the ground. His cheeks are flushed, and I am completely out of breath as well as I sit next to him.

  “I’ve got an American Indian costume with a feathered headdress,” I tell him after a while.

  “No kidding,” he says. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Mama and Aunt Puica made it for me with Cousin Mimi. She’s a painter. The headdress is really amazing. Do you want to see it?”

  Andrei nods but is too tired to get up. We sit together in silence. I am afraid to go back into the house to get my costume. I try to push the thought of the two men still inside talking to Grandpa out of my head, but I can’t.

  “Andrei, do you know what cocoei are?”

  “Sure,” he says, “they’re young roosters. I grew up with them on the farm. Why do you want to know?”

  “Those are not the kind of cocoei I’m talking about,” I try to explain.

  “What other kind are there?”

  “Gold ones, coins,” I tell him.

  Andrei shakes his head. “No such bird, except in fairy tales. I suppose you’re going to tell me that roosters lay eggs too.”

  Andrei’s ball suddenly bounces off the yard wall. One of the men in raincoats is standing directly in front of us laughing.

  “Too tired to play catch?” He takes off his hat and wipes his brow with a handkerchief from his pants pocket.

  “No, sir,” Andrei and I answer him in unison.

  The men wave when they reach the yard gate. We wave back and run straight into the house. Grandpa Yosef is sitting at the dining room table sipping tea.

  “What happened?” I blurt.

  Grandpa continues to sip his tea. “Nothing,” he says. “They just wanted to take a look at our bedroom, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I ask.

  “That’s all,” he answers, winking at me. He cups his hand over my ear and whispers, ignoring Andrei. “They’re going to allow Grandma Iulia and me to leave, because they can use our bedroom and they won’t have to pay our pension anymore.”

  “Hey, Eva, don’t you want to show me your American Indian headdress?” Andrei interrupts.

  “Not now. I’ll show it to you tomorrow. I’ve got lots of homework,” I say, trying to get rid of him.

  “Oh, come on,” Andrei pleads.

  “All right, come with me!” I grab him by the hand and pull him into our bedroom. When Andrei tries on the feathered headdress, he looks like a prince, and I decide at this very moment that I am going to marry him. “You can keep it until tomorrow if you take care of it, and promise to return it.”

  “It’s a deal!” he says, grabbing his ball and running upstairs to his room, my headdress crowning his blond head with feathers.

  THAT NIGHT EVERYONE GATHERS in excitement around the dinner table. Tata is pressing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, and Mama brings her knitting with her. The needles make a rhythmic clicking sound.

  “Can’t you stop that for just one minute?” Aunt Puica says, looking at the sweater that my mother is knitting. “The sound of your needles gets on my nerves.”

  “Everything gets on your nerves,” Mama answers.

  “Children!” Grandpa Yosef says, clinking his fork against his glass. “This is no time to argue.”

  “Who’s arguing?” Aunt Puica asks.

  “Darling”—Uncle Max turns to her—“I think Papa has an announcement.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s an announcement,” Grandpa Yosef begins. “It’s just a hunch, but it’s a good one. Given the visit we had earlier this afternoon, I believe that Iulia, Natan, and I will be granted passports for Israel soon, but we’ll have to wait and see if I’m right.”

  Everyone starts to talk at the same time. “Do you mean you’re leaving without us?” Aunt Puica screeches.

  “It’s not like we have a lot of choice, darling,” Grandpa Yosef says.

  “How dare they!”

  “How dare they what?” Grandpa Yosef asks.

  “How dare the Securitate separate our family!”

  Tata snickers and excuses himself from the table. Mama runs after him, grabs him by the elbow, and starts whispering. Tata pulls her into our bedroom, where they remain for the rest of the evening.

  Grandma Iulia continues to sit in silence at the dining room table next to Uncle Natan while Uncle Max shoots one question after another at Grandpa.

  “Why didn’t you tell them they’d be better off if they granted passports to all of us? That way they can have the entire apartment. There are two additional bedrooms, Papa.”

  “You want me to argue with the Securitate, Max? I was happy they didn’t come here to look for the cocoei.”

  “What about us, Papa? Do you expect us to live with a bunch of goy strangers in this house once you’re gone?” Uncle Max’s question hangs in the air.

  “I expect they will let all of you go in due time as well.”

  “But why wait? Why not let us go now if they’re going to let us go at all?”

  Grandpa sighs and speaks in a patient and calm voice. “I don’t know. I don’t have the answer, but I believe and pray that you will join us in Israel soon.”

  “You’d better pray hard,” Uncle Max says, getting up and leaving the room. Grandpa remains at the table sipping his tea and smoking cigarettes even after Grandma Iulia retires for the evening. I sit with him, but we do not talk. This quiet time between us is enough. I cannot imagine my grandparents leaving without the rest of us. I cannot imagine my life without Grandpa Yosef and Grandma Iulia. Uncle Natan’s wheezes and snorts can be heard from his cot.

  EVERY SPRING around my birthday Grandpa Yosef comes home with a large box wrapped in brown paper. He unwraps it with as much care as if the box contained something of great value, but what emerges are flat square crackers that are as dry as dust and completely tasteless.

  “Matzos,” he says, delighted, cracking one of the matzos and handing me a piece. I take a bite because I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “It tastes a lot better with a little butter and honey,” he says, laughing. “Eat, little Leah.”

  Tata comes into the dining room and breaks off a piece. “And why is this year different from all other years?” Without waiting for Grandpa Yosef’s answer, Tata continues, “This year in this flea-infested Communist country, next year in Yerushalaim.”

  “Gyuri,” Grandpa says, “I didn’t think you knew anything about Passover.”

  “Aha, but I do,” Tata tells him. “During the war, between serving in the army and being sent to the lagers, I attended a Seder in a shtetl in Hungary where the Jews set up a table right in the middle of the main street. Anyone who passed through was welcome to join them at the table and eat. That was my first and last Seder.”

  “And where are those Jews now?” Grandpa asks.

  Tata’s smirk disappears. “You know the answer to that, Papa.”

  ANDREI INVITES ME to paint Easter eggs. He brings several enameled metal bowls into our kitchen, and we dip the hard-boiled eggs into different bowls of food coloring and wait for them to dry. Andrei then shows me how to paint flowers and geometric patterns on each egg.

  “This is just like helping my mother with her Romanian gift
boxes,” I confide, but Andrei is too engrossed in admiring the eggs to listen.

  “The most important part, Eva, comes now,” he says, taking the most beautiful egg out of a basket he has lined with a purple cotton napkin. “Pick any one you like,” he says.

  I figure if he can pick a beautiful egg, then so can I, so I choose a light blue egg with pink hearts and hold it in the palm of my hand.

  “Now the entire idea,” he explains, “is for us to knock the two eggs together, head to head, and shout with enthusiasm, ‘Cristos a înviat! Christ has risen!’ The egg that cracks the least, wins. The one that’s all cracked up, loses.”

  “Cristos a înviat!” we shout in unison and crack the first two eggs.

  “I win!” Andrei declares.

  “I don’t think so,” I tell him, pointing at the cracks in his shell. “Look at how cracked your egg is.”

  “Yours is even more cracked,” he says, peeling the shell off my egg and taking a big bite. “Here, have some,” he offers, revealing crumbs of yellow yolk stuck on his front teeth. “Do you have any salt and pepper?”

  I hand him the shakers from the counter. “Andrei, my grandparents are leaving for Israel.”

  “Oh yeah? Where’s that?” he asks between bites.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s far away. Let’s knock some more eggs.”

  GRANDMA IULIA AND UNCLE NATAN are bundled up in their winter coats even though it is spring outside. They are sitting uncomfortably at the dining room table, with two huge valises next to their chairs. Grandpa appears out of his bedroom wearing his winter fur hat.

  “The armoire’s completely empty, Iulia. It’s time to go,” he says.

  “Good,” Grandma Iulia answers, searching her handbag for her eyedrops. “Call a taxi. I want to be early at the train station. We still have to go through customs.”

  Uncle Natan starts to cough uncontrollably.

  “Sabina! Please make a cup of tea with honey for Natan,” Grandma Iulia calls out.